The Skype call with Garrett was the last happy moment for a while. The infection that my father was battling returned, and he was too weak to fight it off.

“It’s just a matter of time,” his doctor told us. We were all gathered in his room, a place we rarely left. My dad was in and out of consciousness, waking only to make eye contact and give us weak smiles. Even in his last days, Dad was still trying to reassure us that everything would be fine. “I would make sure everything is in order.”

The doctor’s words seemed so final. Make sure everything is in order. Call the insurance companies. And then there was the question that haunted me day and night: “Does your father have a DNR on file?”

I looked at Valerie who nodded. “Yes,” she said tearfully. “He wants to just go.”

When my father was first diagnosed, he was optimistic, but over the last year, he’d become more realistic. He had agreed to the surgeries and the treatments but had been honest about their outcome. If they didn’t work, if his cancer spread, then he would accept there was nothing left to do but enjoy the past few months of his life.

My father’s study was small, but during the last few days of his life, we didn’t want to be far apart. We craved the closeness and connection. We played his records constantly, filling the room with soft music. He deserved to be surrounded by the things and the people he loved the most.

I sent Garrett a constant stream of emails. I couldn’t share my grief with Valerie or my mother, but I needed to unleash it somehow. Night after night, I sat curled in a small armchair in the corner of his room with my laptop and sent email after email. Sometimes, they were only a sentence or two. Other times, they were long and rambling, perhaps even incoherent, and sometimes, I wished I hadn’t sent them. But I received no response from him.

“Cami,” my mother said softly. I looked up, and the sadness in her eyes told me that this was the end. I closed the laptop and set it on the table next to the chair I had claimed as my own. My feet felt leaden as I shuffled to my father’s side. Sinking down in the chair next to his bed, I grabbed his hand, then kissed it before placing it against my cheek. For one last moment, I wanted to feel his touch.

“I love you,” I whispered, gently setting his hand back down on the bed. I looked up at Valerie whose expression mirrored my own. Tears streamed endlessly down our cheeks; our eyes were red and swollen. I nodded, and she left to get the nurse.

The nurse checked my father’s vitals and confirmed what we already knew. He was gone. For the first time in months, I willingly went into my mother’s arms. We huddled together as the nurse called and informed the doctor of my father’s death. Everything over the course of the next few hours seemed to happen in slow motion. I remained permanently affixed to the armchair as the doctor arrived, then the paramedics, and finally, Palmer. He knelt in front of me and grasped my hands in his.

“Cami,” he said softly. “Cami, you need to sleep. Come and lie down.”

“No,” I answered him. The paramedics were placing my father’s lifeless body on a gurney. I watched it all happen right in front of me, but I might as well have been a mile away. They covered my father’s body with a plain white sheet, and then he was gone. I stood abruptly. Palmer was right there, his hand hovering under my elbow, waiting to catch me.

“Where’s he going? Where are they taking him?” My voice was shrill and panicked. I turned in a wild circle, searching for my father. A high wail escaped my lips as I sank to the floor. Palmer’s arms wrapped around me tightly as he gently rocked me back and forth.

“It’ll be okay,” he whispered, smoothing his hands down my back. “I’m here for you.”

Valerie was next to me too. Her arms joined Palmer’s, and they both held me tightly while I did my best to suppress the screams bubbling up in my throat. He was gone. My father was really gone, and I’d never felt more alone.

The next morning when I woke up, my eyes were dry and practically swollen shut. There was a warm body next to mine, and my first thought was Garrett’s home! Somehow, he knew, and he came home. My heart rate picked up, and I shifted in the bed, turning toward him. Instead of Garrett, I was face to face with Palmer.

“Palmer,” I croaked. My voice was hoarse, and my throat felt sore. I cleared it and said Palmer’s name again. His eyes opened slowly, and a slight smile tugged at his lips.

“Hey,” he said softly.

“What are you doing here?”

“I didn’t want to leave you. The doctor almost had to sedate you. Don’t you remember?”

I shook my head slowly. The memories of last night were still foggy, but one thing was perfectly clear: my father had passed away. Fresh tears spilled down my cheeks, and I buried my face in my hands.

“He’s really gone,” I choked out. “My dad is really gone.”

Palmer tugged at my hands, pulling them away and wiping away the stream of tears. “I’m here, Cami, and I’ll help you get through this.”

I nodded even though he wasn’t who I wanted. The one person who could truly give me the comfort I craved was halfway around the world.

I got up and went through the motions of my day, doing everything on autopilot. Palmer was there, hovering in the background, waiting for me to break, but I wasn’t going to. I was going to prove to myself that Garrett was right. I was strong. When it was time to head to the funeral home, Palmer offered to come, but I told him it wasn’t necessary. He watched me carefully as I got into the back seat of Valerie’s car.

My father didn’t want a traditional service. He wanted a memorial service filled with the people who mattered most to him, and he wanted to be cremated. “And he hated roses,” I told the funeral home director. “No roses.”

“Your father loved roses,” my mother interjected.

“No, he didn’t. He hated them.” Because of you, I added mentally, but this wasn’t the time to discuss that.

“Okay, so nothing with roses,” the director agreed cautiously.

“He’d always joked about playing the Bee Gees at his funeral. I think we should do it,” Valerie said. I looked at her, and we both smiled. The memory of my father dressed up as John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever one year for Halloween sprang into my mind, and I couldn’t help the laughter that tumbled from my lips.

“We should definitely do it,” I agreed.

“Absolutely not,” my mother said firmly. “We are honoring your father’s life, and we need to be respectful.”

But we didn’t hear her. Instead, we reminisced about him, and the silly things he did for us. He was the reason pancakes were my comfort food (because they were one of the few things he could make without burning). He was the reason I had the courage to leave Gig Harbor and become a pastry chef. He was the reason I still believed there were decent men in the world because even though my mother had left him, he still loved her until the day he took his last breath. I would do whatever I damn well pleased to honor the most important man in my life.

When the plans were finished, Palmer arrived at the funeral home to pick me up and take me to dinner. I was physically and mentally exhausted, and food was the last thing on my mind, but he pushed me to eat.

“You’re going to get sick,” he scolded. “You have to take care of yourself.”

“I know.” I slowly picked my way through a salad but barely touched the plate of pasta. Palmer looked disgusted as I asked our server for a box. “Can you just take me home?”

It had only been a day since my father passed, but it felt like things were happening too quickly. But there was also so much to be done that it was overwhelming. We had to wait three days before he could be cremated, and then the memorial service would be a few days after that. Lawyers had to be contacted to begin the process of executing his will. Insurance companies needed to be notified too. It was all too much for me, but I kept reminding myself that I was strong.

“Have you heard from Garrett?” Palmer asked me as we drove back to my house.

“No. Not for a few weeks.” Almost a month since that last moment of happiness. “But I email him every day anyway.”

“Well, it all depends on his job. Sometimes it’s hard to communicate unless you’re paying for Wi-Fi or you work in communications.”

“He’s tried to prepare me, but this is the time when I want to be able to talk to him, you know? I just want to hear his voice for a few minutes.”

“I’m sure he’ll call soon,” Palmer said, trying to reassure me.

When we arrived at my house, I quickly exited the car. I didn’t want to keep up a façade; I just wanted to fade into the darkness of the guesthouse and grieve. I thanked Palmer for dinner and then hurried inside before he could protest.

After a long, hot shower, I changed into one of Garrett’s T-shirts that I had snagged from his laundry and buried myself under a pile of blankets with my laptop. I opened my email, but there wasn’t anything new, so I sent him one.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Grief

No matter how many times I say otherwise, I’m not strong. I know that you keep telling me to be strong, but I just can’t do it anymore. I want to be weak, Garrett; I want you to come home and be my strength because I don’t think I can survive this. He’s been gone one day, and already, my life feels significantly emptier. He was my best friend, and now he’s gone. What do I do without him?

I know what I should be thinking about now, what I should be looking forward to, but I can’t. I can’t think about the day you come home or about starting a life with you because that means planning a life where my father does not exist. That means accepting he will not be around to teach his grandchildren to make confetti pancakes (confession time: they’re really his recipe, not mine) or to take them clam digging during the holidays.

It’s been a month, and I’m aching to talk to you, if only for a few minutes. I need to hear your voice, your encouragement. I need you to lift me up because I’m falling, Garrett. Wherever you are, I hope you’re safe.

Yours, Cami.

I sent it off and set my laptop on the bedside table before settling in for another restless night of sleep.